


Devil's Brood

by eurosthewanderer



Series: So I watched the Spanish Princess and lost my mind [3]
Category: Historical RPF, The Spanish Princess (TV), The White Princess (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:50:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurosthewanderer/pseuds/eurosthewanderer
Summary: The majority of this series will be little plot bunnies that popped into my head when I watched the Spanish Princess but this story is the one I am most likely to continue so come back again in a decade and I'll have it done.





	Devil's Brood

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of this series will be little plot bunnies that popped into my head when I watched the Spanish Princess but this story is the one I am most likely to continue so come back again in a decade and I'll have it done.

It was the morning of the first Mass of the New Year, of our lord, 1490 when what Margaret Beaufort would later to refer to within her own mind as the King making occurred. The Queen Mother was still residing at Elton amongst the Royal Court so thus she would take mass amongst the court, may god save her soul. She could not stop the quiver in her hands as she approached the open, warm doors to the Chapel. Were she within her own household or even in a palace that could offer a private Chapel, the elder lady would enter the scared ground barefoot and empty handed. But now, following just after her grandchildren, Margaret, My lady, Mother of the King felt the blessed beads of her rosary burn into her palm. It would not be the first time she had cursed her father's blood and it would not be the last.For the few short years Margaret had been a child she had believed that one day she would be struck dead by god for daring to pretend she was one of his creatures. Now she walked, head bent so to not find herself blinded by the golden cross, thumbing her rosary beads so that the cross did not lay too long on one bit of skin.

The choir boys began to sing a hymn as her son and his tall, York wife approached their seats. Margaret had always wondered if Elizabeth felt the same aches and pains as Jacquetta Woodville had, what with both of her ancestors sins lining her blood. Elizabeth stood, dressed from head to toe in the black that highlighted the ornate crown of braids beneath her small coronet. As she sat nest to Margaret's son, the King, Margaret's eyes lighted onto the York girl's two sons. Arthur, small, thin, pale and as blond as the mother he followed into the pews. But Arthur's younger brother stood fixed in Margaret's way. Little, ruddy, red head tilted up as he gaped at the cross. Margaret stopped behind him, confused and then horrified as the three year old boy began to shake. 

"Harry?" The York Queen's silly voice whispered. "Come sit with mummy!"

Harry had screamed like a witch set aflame during his baptism. But that was when he had been a babe and even now as the little boy stood, swaying backwards in front of the cross was little more than a toddler. Margaret sprung forward with all the unholy speed she was allowed and caught the little Tudor by before he fell to the floor. Margaret flung her rosary aside and caught him as he went stiff within her arms. She more fell than knelt to the ground, trying to keep her grandson from being hurt. She managed to haul Harry's head into her lap as he jerked and thrashed within her arms.

* * *

Dr. Butts fussed extensively over Margaret's grandson while his mother ran her fingers through his hair and hummed a tune. Margaret stood, stomach sick from the flesh and blood of her savior, behind her son.

"I am not certain, your majesties." Butts said absentmindedly. "He's grace must be watched closely for further fits but he does not seem badly harmed."

The pale eyed doctor turned and then wilted under Margaret's black gaze. Henry cleared his throat but it was his Yorkish girl who spoke.

"My son fainted in front of the Holy Cross and you believe he has not been harmed?" She screeched. "Jesus Christ save us. He could be possessed."

"Don't be an idiot!" Margaret spat, feeling suddenly as if she could burst into flame. "If the Doctor says he is well, then he is well!"

She was the daughter of Dragon Eyed, salt blooded Elizabeth of York and Edward IV whose mother had sired him off something much fouler than an archer.

"He fainted in front of the cross," Elizabeth repeated. "I'm surprised you are not calling for an exorcism."

"And I am surprised," Margaret began before her own son cleared his throat, loudly. Henry nodded his dark head to the side in a dismissal of Margaret's doctor. The thin man bowed low and survived to the door of the servants quarters when it closed behind him, Margaret locked it from within. Henry, the little red devil was trying to squirm from his mother's grasp.

"What?" Elizabeth snapped with all the venom of a captured mouse. "That I might care for my son rather than be made to trust other's with him?"

"That your mother taught you so very little of your ancestors." Margaret told her. "Of have you forgotten those lessons so soon?"

"I know them!" Little Henry squeaked cheerfully from atop his mother's skirts. "You are Lord Papa's mother and dead Earl Richmond is Lord Papa's father. Mama's mother was the Queen and mama's Lord Papa was Edward the Fourth whose father was the Duke of York before me!"

"Yes, Henry." Henry, the King, said exasperated. "I am glad your tutors have made you sit still for long enough to learn that little bit."

Margaret watched as her grandson's face fell and his mother's face went pallid as a corpse. The watery blue eyes went from Margaret to Henry to her son but, to her honor, she only pulled the little boy closer.

"My Lady Mother," The King's voice was firm. "I will escort you back to mass."

Margaret opened her mouth to protest but her son offered his arm with a note of _Royal _finality. Her poor, poor, human boy. Jasper was a good man but little better than a guardsman or city priest in certain matters and she had never been allowed the time. From the Devil and by the Devil, they would return to the Devil. 

Margaret took her son's arm and gripped it tightly while he undid the bar she had set. Behind the Queen mother, the Queen herself began to tell a story to her son.

"Do you know what the doctor's found when Richard the Lionheart died?" Elizabeth asked Harry.

"No mama." Harry responded.

"They found that his heart was three times the size of a normal man's. If fact is resembled a boar or even a lion!"

The door slammed shut behind Margaret and her son.

* * *

Thomas Boleyn was a goodly man to Elizabeth Howard's eyes, though she like him less than many of her brother's other companions. But he was tall, though not too tall with thick black hair and a kind smile that the daughter of the Duke of Norfolk thought she could grow quite fond of during their marriage. He was also quite skilled in the art of consummation, making the roads along the route to Hever Castle quite unpleasant for the new Mistress Boleyn. Elizabeth had insisted upon riding alongside her new Lord Husband despite his gentle concern. After all, Tom-that was what he wished to be called, _Tom-_had told her before their wedding that his daughter was fascinated by horses. Elizabeth believed the girl-_Anne, was it?-_would certainly be impressed by her grey thoroughbred, whose line could be traced as far back as Agincourt. She had even taken the liberty of giving Guinevere a new French name, _Mademoiselle, _in hope of impressing the little girl. Anne had, after all, been born in Brittany to a French mother. 

Hever Castle loomed, small and quant to the Duke's daughter's eyes in the sunset. Elizabeth could make out low ornamental moat but no wall around what looked to her eyes to be more a manor than any kind of fortress or even a palace.

"Here we are!" Tom announced excitedly as he spurred his horse ahead of hers. It was something she had not seen before, her husband entering an ecstasy of any kind of emotion. Even when they had been in bed together he seemed as if a noble, distant knight atop his steed more than a lover. At least she could be assured that her new husband would be happy with the child growing within her womb. The child she _prayed _was growing in her womb. Elizabeth had not bled yet since her wedding but she was unwilling to tell her husband yet, just as her Lady Mother had advised. Elizabeth knew that her mother had lost several of siblings before they were born. She would pray that God spared her that pain. 

Over the moat in front of Hever Castle-_Mansion-_there was a bridge. Not a drawbridge but a bridge made of white wood and white stone that was shaped into a quant curve over the moat. Elizabeth gripped her reigns tightly, knowing full well that water made Guinevere-_Mademoiselle-_skittish. She slowed her horse from a comfortable trot to a walk while her Lord Husband sped his black quarter horse into a full charge, racing ahead toward the bridge and his home.

Bess looked over her shoulder to watch Tom's groom, the cart carrying all of her worldly possessions and Madge, her maid. For once the groom did not have his cap pulled low over his forehead. His new mistress imagined that she could see a feline glint radiating from his eyes before she turned back to the bridge ahead.

"Good girl Guinevere." Elizabeth patted the flank of her horses' neck even as she tightened the reigns, pulling her mare's head back as Hever Castle sat, covered in ivy, in front of her. In the light of the dying sun Elizabeth could see just how red the strange, foreign plant looked against the stone.

Tom had been gentle on their wedding night, as a husband should be, and gallant but better skilled that equipped. He had placed his mouth on her breasts, thighs and secret parts. Elizabeth thought he must have learned that trick from his dead, French, wife. With all the naivety of a newlywed woman, she liked to imagine that she was the more beautiful of the two. He had said she was dark-haired with the most mesmerizing eyes of any woman. But Elizabeth had red-gold Howard hair that was likened to beaten gold in the summer and flame in the winter. Perhaps she would learn when she crossed over the bridge now seconds from her and Mademoiselle. Anne was said to resemble her greatly.

But Mademoiselle proved herself valiant, trotting onto the bridge with only the turn of her ears displaying her distress. Elizabeth looked over the side of the bridge into the dark waters. There was a stillness at the surface but something silver flashed beneath the surface. As Guinevere reached the peak of the bridges curve a flash of white on the bank caught her eye. Half hidden beneath the bridge was what looked like a folded shirt and doublet. Perhaps some stableboy or man at arms had taken to swimming on the moat. Elizabeth imagined him, muscled and bronzed rising naked from the water to see the Lady of the Manor perched atop his discarded clothes. But Elizabeth was the Lady of the Manor and _that _was a heinous sin. She had a good, kind, gentle, intelligent man for a husband and a son in her belly, if god was generous. That would be more than enough. 

When Guinevere stepped back onto dry land, Elizabeth Boleyn nee Howard did not feel a release of tension within her chest. Tom was already off of his horse and springing up the steps to the door of his mansion-_castle. _It was a mansion and Elizabeth was certain that she could never be able to convince her Lord Husband of that. Or even his daughter for that matter. The single wooden door opened just as Thomas-Tom-reached it. It spat out a small flash of yellow into her husband's awaiting arms. 

Anne Boleyn squealed loudly as her father swung her around in a circle, allowing Elizabeth to see that her step-daughter did indeed have dark hair. Though she thought the curls more closely resembled her father than any long dead Breton mother. She pulled Guinevere to a halt in front of her new home. She slipped off the saddle landing on her shaky legs. A stable hand with grey hair and a mustache appeared out of nowhere to snatch Guinevere's reigns from her hands with a murmured "My Lady."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said and headed to the stairs, listening to the little girl babble excitedly in French. Her thighs burned as she walked up the stone steps toward Tom and Anne. Elizabeth wondered if she had ever been called "Nan" for that name would suit the little girl. She had a face that Bess could only describe as aged with deep lines beneath her eyes and sharp cheekbones that did not carry an ounce of baby fat,

"Oú est elle?" The little girl asked her father while she pointed at Elizabeth.

"Elle est ta nouvelle mère." Tom told her. _Mère _was mother, Elizabeth knew that much of the French language. Anne babbled something else to her father that Bess could not understand due to her Breton accent. Elizabeth had heard the French ambassador speak as well as the King himself who had spent most of his youth in Paris and Flanders. Anne's voice held none of their accents or pauses. It was a sharp, high and almost hypnotic babble. Elizabeth believed she had got it from her Breton mother rather than the woman's reported beauty. 

"Bonjour." Elizabeth said to the little girl who wrinkled her nose at her. The movement did little for the bulging, sagging half moons beneath her eyes. Elizabeth thought that she would probably look like the King's mother by the time she was thirty if Anne made the expression a lot.

"Bon_jour._" Anne responded in what sounded more like a correction than a greeting. "Madame."

"It's very nice to meet you." Bess said in English which Tom, thankfully translated. Anne smiled at her father, drinking her thin face beneath the dying light.

"Et toi, Madame." She responded as the sun set behind Hever Castle. "Bienvenue." 


End file.
